You Don't Have To Smile
by AnorexicWalrus
Summary: When Arthur lay in a hospital bed, harbouring a pair of bullet wounds in his abdomen, surrounded by the steady beeping of the heart monitor, can Alfred keep smiling for him, or will his grief overwhelm his resolve?


**You Don't Have To Smile**

Every beep of the heart monitor was painful. Alfred feared that the beeping would increase until it became a high-pitched scream; but he feared that the beeping would decrease until there was just a drone of silence, and either way the consequences of the beeping not remaining moderate would be dire.

He wished that the beeping would be for his heart rate; he wished that he was on that white clad hospital bed; he wished that he had tubes inside him; he wished that he was unconscious to the walls of green; he wished that Arthur would be sat where he currently was, holding his hand and, save for a few tears and a wrenched heart, be free from pain.

Alfred wished that he had gone into the bank rather than Arthur; he wished that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time; he wished that he had been shot by the bank robber instead of Arthur; he wished that he hadn't been ordering a taxi on the other side of the street; he wished that when he had turned and saw Arthur collapse, bleeding, through the bank's smashed window, it had all been a nightmare – that he had dozed off on a bench by the taxi station, and Arthur would come and shake him awake, no swathes of blood running from his abdomen, pooling at his feet and staining his pure white blouse, and they would go home together and be safe.

Arthur would be in their bed, safe at home.

Arthur wouldn't be in a hospital bed, his heart being monitored.

Arthur's flesh would be intact, save for a few past scars.

Arthur's flesh wouldn't be pierced by a pair of bullet holes.

Alfred clenched Arthur's limp, pale hand tighter, and he winced as a few tears were squeezed from his eyes. He was often told that his eyes were of the most cerulean blue, like that of the restless ocean or the endless sky; but right at that moment, they were dull, and unable to see anything but the sleeping man before him, who was so precious, so beloved.

Alfred pressed a tender kiss to Arthur's knuckle, just like he would every morning, and Arthur would stir and his breath-taking green eyes would flutter open, framed by dark lashes, and the rays of sunshine would beam through the windows and kiss his sweet smile. Alas, Arthur did not wake this time.

Alfred kissed his hand again, and again, and again, getting more desperate each time, and his tears fell onto Arthur's cold fingers in watery beads, and Arthur would usually tell Alfred not to snivel so, but he couldn't this time. Alfred had to tell himself not to cry, because that isn't what Arthur would want – he had to be brave for the both of them. But the more he tried to retaliate against his tears, the harder they fell, and little whines of sadness would emerge from his choked throat, and uncontrollable, devastating thoughts would cross his mind and make him all the more upset until he was just hunched over the edge of Arthur's bed, clutching onto his hand as if it were about to disappear otherwise, and his shoulders shook with the force of his crying.

He tried not to make too much noise, because it was a hospital, and he wasn't meant to disturb the patients and visitors, and Arthur would scold him if he made a ruckus, but he couldn't help it. He was wracked by wails, and it almost sounded as if he were the dying one, and he certainly felt like it, but what a selfish thought, because he wasn't the one who lay still beneath thin hospital sheets, although he wished he were because Arthur didn't deserve this. Arthur didn't deserve _any_ of this.

Alfred looked up at the sound of high heels to see a nurse appearing from behind their curtain. She smiled sympathetically at Alfred, but he couldn't manage to return the gesture. "So," she began, righting her clipboard, "how is our patient doing?" That annoyed Alfred somehow. He knew it was stupid, but he couldn't help it. _Our patient_, she had said – _Their_ patient – like she owned him; like the hospital owned him. Well, she didn't. _They_ didn't. If Arthur was anybody's, he belonged to Alfred. And, furthermore, they called him patient, as if that were all there was to him. To them, he was just a man in his twenties with two bullet wounds in his abdomen. But he was so much more.

He was Arthur Kirkland, aged twenty-three, who lived in London but longed to return to the countryside from whence he grew up. He had an addiction to tea and a tendency to swear, and although he was organised and tidy he was still somewhat a scatterbrain and kept forgetting where he had left his keys. He was easily embarrassed and often blushed at even the slightest words or gestures that had a hint of affection in them. He was a cat person and liked knitting, sewing and embroidery, thus acted a lot like an old lady. He was stubborn and argumentative and said a lot of insensitive things and made too many downright rude comments. He tries to make out that he's a gentleman, but give him a few drops of alcohol and he becomes a fool. He believes in myth and magic and still harbours an array of imaginary friends, so he's very weird. And, despite his variety of faults, he was still loved dearly by Alfred.

But instead of all that, Alfred just murmured, "Alright, I think. I mean, I don't know. His heart rate is stable."

"That's good, that's good." the nurse replied, scribbling down some notes, "He's doing quite well, it seems. The bullets didn't do any severe harm, and the wounds have been cleansed and bandaged up. He's on the road to recovery, so no need to worry too much, okay?" Maybe Arthur wasn't severely harmed, but Alfred was getting severely annoyed at how peppy this nurse was acting under Arthur's circumstances, so he just nodded solemnly. "Good. Okay, I'll leave you two alone now. If you or, uh…" she quickly peered down at her clipboard, "…Arthur need anything, then don't be afraid to ask." and with that, she dashed off again with an altogether far too happy attitude, the click of her high heels on the cold, hard hospital floor echoing around.

Alfred understood that maybe she was just having a good day, or maybe she was just meant to be cheery to keep up morale, and it's not like he wanted her to shuffle about and act doomy and gloomy, but he just wished she wouldn't act like…like she didn't care. Like she was in her own, joyous world, and Arthur meant nothing to her when he should've, because Arthur meant everything – Arthur _was _everything – and she didn't seem to get that. Yes, she probably had to have an uncaring attitude when she had so many patients with sad stories to work with, and it would be better for her to not care than to break down about it all the time, but…

Alfred sighed and stopped arguing with himself. It didn't matter – the nurse's attitude to her work and the patients didn't matter. What _did_ matter was Arthur; Arthur who had gone to the bank just to get some cash so they could afford a taxi home together, but instead of cash had got a stomach of bullets. And there was nothing Alfred could have done to save him from that, but damn did he wish for that. If only Arthur had ordered the taxi, if only Alfred had gone to the bank; would being shot in the abdomen hurt as much as seeing Arthur in such pain?

"I'm sorry, Arthur." Alfred breathed shakily, rubbing Arthur's hand gently with his thumb, "I'm sorry I failed at protecting you. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you like I swore I always would be. I'm sorry I wasn't your hero." Tears soaked into the bedding as Alfred began to weep again, "I'm sorry that I'm always clumsy; I'm sorry that I act immature; I'm sorry that I never listen to you; I'm so sorry, Arthur. I'll be better for you – I promise – just please wake up." he rubbed his wet eyes with his sleeve, but the tears continued to pour, "Please."

Arthur didn't wake. Then again, he always was stubborn. But what if Alfred never got to experience how stubborn Arthur could be again, or how sweet, or how terrible at cooking, or how gentle, or how stern? What if he never woke up, and Alfred would be stuck in a never-ending nightmare, and someday he would altogether forget everything that was his lovely Arthur, and he would spend the rest of his life walking around as the shell of a man who had forgotten what he lived for? What if Arthur's eyes slowly opening were a trick of the eye?

But it wasn't a trick. As Alfred brushed the remaining tears from his eyes, Arthur's own gorgeous green irises were revealed behind dark, half-lidded eyes. He looked so weary, and it made Alfred's heart ache all the more, but he couldn't burst out crying again, for this was good progress and needed to be encouraged. Despite his pain, he plastered on his best smile.

"Hey, sweetie." he murmured, stroking Arthur's hands, now less limp than before, "How are you, babes?" Alfred's heart leapt and fell at the same time as Arthur's lifeless pupils focused on him, and he turned his head, and he just looked so frail and not at all the assertive man which Alfred knew, and yet he knew he was in there somewhere – he had just declined was all. "Do you need anything? Do you want water? More pillows, fewer pillows?"

Alfred waited patiently for a bit, and he wondered if Arthur had even grasped what was going on or if he even understood Alfred, or were his words just mashed together and resounding off one another in the Briton's head? He let out a sigh of relief though as Arthur shook his head, seeming to understand.

Alfred was quiet for a little longer, just smiling and rhythmically stroking Arthur's hand and waiting in case Arthur wanted to say anything. He didn't even know – he just wanted to leap upon Arthur and smother him with hugs and kisses and love and assure himself that he was allowed to be relieved because Arthur was there and awake and on the road to recovery, but he couldn't, so he just continued waiting. His waiting paid off though, as Arthur's eyes swivelled around a bit, scanning the area, and then they refocused on Alfred and he asked weakly, "Hospital?"

"Yes, yes," Alfred replied, reaching out and running his fingers through Arthur's messy hair that could never be tamed, "we're in a hospital. Well, more like _you're_ in a hospital and I'm visiting, but either way, yes, this is a hospital." Alfred felt bad for babbling so much, especially when Arthur was just adjusting to being awake, but he was just so excited and he wanted to talk to Arthur for decades, about _everything_, but primarily Arthur himself – about how wonderful he was and how he was perfect and he didn't know it and how the colour pink didn't suit him but the colour green did and how much Alfred loved him.

"Oh." Arthur replied in an almost sigh, turning and wincing a bit, obviously feeling the sting of the wounds, before snuggling further into his pillow and closing his eyes once more, Funny, these hospitals." he continued on, and Alfred had to lean closer to catch the quietly spoken words, "They're so sterile…so clean…"

Alfred frowned and placed his hand on Arthur's shoulder, "Hey, Arthur." he whispered, shaking him ever so slightly, so that he didn't hurt him but still kept his attention, "Don't sleep yet. Let's talk more, okay? I miss talking to you."

Alfred watched in anticipation as Arthur groaned quietly, his eyes opening ever so slowly, ever so slightly, to look at Alfred again. "What do you want to talk about?" he asked, and Alfred made his smile wider yet.

"Anything you want to talk about." he replied, removing his hand from Arthur's shoulder and using it to hold his hand once more, "How about tea?"

"Tea." Arthur muttered hesitantly, and Alfred encouraged him to keep going with a nod and a squeeze of the hand, "I love tea."

Alfred chuckled, although it got a bit caught in his throat, "Yes, you do. And I love coffee." Alfred awaited a reply, and at one point Arthur closed his eyes again and Alfred thought he was going to have to shake him awake once more or just close the talking session and let Arthur sleep for goodness knows how long, but he eventually replied.

"That's terrible."

Alfred chuckled once more, more prominently this time, but his joy faded as he looked down at Arthur's hand, with the snow white flesh and the long, bony fingers and the embedded lines etched into his palm that may or may not have something to say about his future, and Alfred wondered if those lines would have had anything to say about Arthur getting shot, and perhaps if he were a palm reader he could have foreseen it and prevented any of this from happening.

"Alfred." Arthur mumbled, and Alfred looked up quick as a flash to see Arthur, eyes open once more, so solemn and trained on him, and he wished he could communicate with Arthur through just a look so that Arthur wouldn't have to struggle to talk.

"What is it?" he asked, "Do you need something?"

Arthur shook his head and rested in the pillow for a moment, and Alfred wondered what Arthur called him for. Was he just clarifying that that was how to pronounce his partner's name, or did he want to say something, or did he want Alfred to lean closer and reassure him that he was there, there for him, and promise with his heart and soul that he really would be there for Arthur this time, next time, all the time. But before Alfred could ponder more, Arthur reached out and placed his chilled hand on Alfred's tear-streaked cheek, and he finally spoke.

"You don't have to smile, if you don't want to."

There was a pregnant pause, where the smile Alfred had plastered on his face for the sake of Arthur fell off, and he realised he had been acting the same as the nurse – cheery and joyful, for the morale of others, for the morale of Arthur – and he hated himself for it, and he hated himself for getting annoyed at the nurse when she was just doing her job, and he hated that Arthur lay in a hospital bed, and he hated how weak and frail and tired he was, and he hated how the tears began to well in his eyes once again, and he hated how he leaned into Arthur's hand on his cheek as if he needed the support more, and he hated how he was wracked with sobs, and he hated that he clung to Arthur's hand so painfully tight and fell forward onto the bed to cry, and he hated that he loved the feeling of finally crying full-out as Arthur allowed his hand to be squeezed and used his other hand to tenderly run his fingers through Alfred's honey blonde locks as he shushed him and reassured him that everything was going to be alright.

Arthur stayed awake throughout the entire time that Alfred cried, and he didn't get annoyed at how Alfred clung to him or how his tears wetted the sheets; he just comforted him and sang to him in an almost whisper, and continued to assure him that he didn't have to always be happy and smile for him, and it was okay to be sad and frown and cry sometimes.

Eventually, Alfred's crying died down, and he soon fell asleep, exhausted from sobbing, hunched over Arthur's bed, with tears that hadn't fallen still hanging from his lashes, and Arthur, still singing little snippets of songs they both knew, later lulled himself to sleep as well.

* * *

**Author's notes: This idea came from pie1313, and it was so sad and beautiful that I couldn't help but write it. I think it didn't turn out so bad. In fact, it's one of my new favourites. I only hope I managed to portray the sadness and beauty of the scenario through my words. It must be hard on cheery characters like Alfred, who are so unused to tears and do their best to refrain from them for the sake of others.  
Critique is welcomed, comments are appreciated.  
Thank you and enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Alfred and Arthur belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

**AnorexicWalrus~**


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